Serengeti
by nhsweetcherry
Summary: Alan and Gordon get themselves into major trouble...can Scott, John and Virgil get to them in time?
1. Chapter 1

_Lol, I just never know what my mind is going to come up with next! Major Gordon whump alert!_

 _I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

"Next time, I'm going to let _you_ get shot," Gordon grumbles. "It'd be a lot easier if I could just do all of this myself instead of trying to explain it to you."

Gordon's face is white, and Alan really hopes that it's just because Gordon's in pain, and not that he's bleeding out – for a variety of reasons, it's going to be a while before they can get to a hospital. "Well, while you're figuring out a plan, keep your knees bent," he tells Gordon. "It'll help with the pain."

Gordon rolls his eyes. "Yes, doctor," he mutters sullenly. But he obeys, because Alan is right.

Mindful of a warning Gordon had given him a few minutes earlier, Alan makes sure not to raise his head too high as he scans the horizon. He's glad that the color of his hair actually blends in pretty well with the tall grass. "Do you think we'll see them coming?"

"Depends on whether they're professionals or amateurs," Gordon says.

His voice sounds muffled, and Alan glances over at him to see that he's draped an arm across his face to keep the sun from glaring in his eyes.

"If they've been poaching a long time, or if they've got military training, we're probably dead meat," Gordon continues. He's silent a minute, then he peeks out from under his arm. "But I think they might not actually be professionals – the fact that we're both still alive proves that."

"Or it could just prove that you've got good reflexes," Alan counters. He sighs. "Remind me again why you thought it was a good idea to leave our watches back at the camp?"

"We depend on them too much," Gordon mumbles. He shifts slightly, then winces, his red-stained fingers going to the makeshift bandage on his left side. "And anyway, it was _supposed_ to be just for a couple hours. It's good to practice other types of communication."

"Well, hey, I've got a mirror," Alan deadpans. "Shall I try signaling Johnny with that?"

"Ha, ha," Gordon says. "It's also good to practice not having big brothers swoop in to save us every time we get ourselves in trouble. We're grown men. We can handle this."

Alan shoots him a sideways glance. "You're kidding me, right?" he says. "You're lying in the middle of the African Serengeti with a bullet in your gut, being hunted by angry poachers, and you're telling me that if you had some way to call for Scott and Virgil to come rescue us, you wouldn't do it?"

Gordon grimaces. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"If nothing else, they could at least help me haul you around," Alan grumbles. "Why are you so heavy, anyway? You're shorter than me!"

"Muscle," Gordon says. "Muscle weighs a lot." He sounds tired. "Okay, yes, I admit it – I do wish we could call Scotty and Virg in to save the day. But we can't, so we've gotta figure this out on our own." He sighs. "Sorry, Al."

Alan rolls his eyes. "Not your fault. Well, the poacher part isn't your fault, anyway. The rest of it might be." He sits in silence for a minute. "How far do you think it is back to camp?" he asks. "Less than two miles, right?"

"Yeah, but that's a long way to go when you're dragging along my deadweight," Gordon says. "Plus, we'd have to approach it with extreme caution – if they've found the camp, they'll probably set up an ambush for us. With those guns, they could snipe at us from a thousand yards away." His face scrunches up as he thinks. "Unless…you know, we could follow that little gully that runs alongside the camp. You'd probably have to leave me at the bottom and climb up. Then you could belly-crawl into camp, grab the watches, and duck right back into the gully. It's risky, but…"

"It could be our only chance," Alan finishes grimly. "All right, how do we get to the base of the gully without being detected?"

Gordon shakes his head. "It's gonna be pretty hard on both of us – we have to try to stay low. Even then, it's not without danger – if they've found a tree to perch in and they happen to spot us, then it won't matter how low we are."

"So I should be watching the trees," Alan says. "Okay, got it." He looks down at Gordon's pinched face. "You ready for this?"

Gordon's grin is a pale, sickly version of his normal broad smile. "As ready as I'll ever be!"

Alan's not sure what makes his stomach clench more – the little half-gasp, half-sob sound that comes out of his brother's mouth as he pulls him up, or the fact that when they're standing, the grass only comes up to their waist. So much for staying low.

He's got Gordon's left arm pulled up over his shoulders, and he grips his brother's belt with his right hand. Gordon sags against him, stumbling along on rubbery legs, head hanging low.

"Mmf," Alan grunts. "When we get home, I'm stepping up my workouts."

"When we get home," Gordon replies raggedly, " _I'm_ gonna plan our next vacation. I'm thinking Disney."

Alan snorts. "I dunno – with our luck, we'd probably get stuck for hours at the top of a roller coaster, or something."

They only make it a few hundred yards before Gordon pleads, "Stop for a minute, Al – _please_. Just, just put me down, okay?" He's hunched over, hand pressed to his side, and he's dripping sweat.

Alan hesitates, but he knows Gordon's levels of pain tolerance, and if Gordon is begging, then it's really, really bad. He drags Gordon just a bit farther, stopping under a shady tree, and lowers his brother to the ground as gently as he can.

Gordon is shivering as he curls up in the tall grass, his complexion nearly gray. It's the beginnings of shock, Alan knows, and he needs to treat it, but he doesn't have any of the supplies that he needs – the only equipment he has is in a small pack on his back, and it's just food, water, maps and some basic first-aid stuff. They have plenty more supplies back at the camp, but of course, that doesn't do them one bit of good. Alan crouches down by his brother and puts his hand on his back, wishing there was something he could do to ease the pain.

 _Scotty, we need you!_ Maybe if he holds that thought long enough, it will trigger his oldest brother's infamous instinct for when his siblings are in trouble, he thinks, half believing that it might work.

Gordon breaks into his thoughts, his voice barely audible when he murmurs, "Leave me, Al. I can't make it all the way back to the camp. You'll have to go without me."

"Wha-? Gordon, _no_. For a million reasons, _no._ One, you're totally helpless out here. Two, I'm not positive I could find you again if I left you, and three, I'm just _not_ leaving you, okay?"

Gordon rolls slowly onto his back, wincing the whole way. There's the barest hint of a smirk at the corners of his mouth and in his eyes as he looks up at Alan. "That wasn't a million," he says.

Alan ignores Gordon attempt at humor. "What if I make some sort of a litter?" he asks, glancing around, looking for materials.

"Nah, that would take too long. The whole point is that any way of moving me will take too long, and what we need right now is speed. I know it seems backwards, but if you want to save my life, you're gonna have to leave me." He grabs Alan's wrist, and his grip is weak. "Yes, it's dangerous – and not just for me, but for you too. I don't want you on your own right now any more than you want me on my own, but our only chance is you making it back to camp and getting those watches."

Alan grimaces, wishing that Gordon's words didn't make so much sense. After a minute, he sighs and pulls one of their water bottles out of the backpack, setting it where Gordon can easily reach it. He looks down at his older brother, his heart panging with each symptom of shock and blood loss that he recognizes. Yes, speed is crucial right now. "Okay," he says. "Just promise me that you'll still be here when I get back."

Alan and Gordon both have enough medical training to know that Alan's demand is ridiculous – that even though Gordon is known for his determination, a promise doesn't have the power to keep him alive past a certain point.

But Gordon says the words anyway, his face solemn. "I'll be here, Alan – I promise."

And that's that. It's not a goodbye, so Alan doesn't say anything else. He just slings the backpack on and moves, crouching, into the tall grass. He only glances backward once, when he's fifty yards away, and he tells himself that it's just to make sure he'll recognize the tree when he comes back this way later. He's slightly disconcerted by the fact that he can't see Gordon at all – until he remembers that it's better not to be able to see him. If Alan can't see him, then hopefully the poachers can't see him either.

A mile and a half is a long trek when you don't dare to stand up straight. Alan makes sure to pause every once in a while and look around for any signs of movement. He tries not to think about the fact that the poachers, like him, are wearing khaki – nearly the same color as the tall grass on every side. Gordon knows how to watch for them – he seems to have almost a sixth sense for things like that – but Alan is on his own now, and he has never felt so alone and unskilled.

He's been scrambling uphill for a little while now, uncomfortably aware that the camp is on a plateau. He and Gordon had picked the place because it has a good view of the sweeping plains of the Serengeti. Ironic that that's the reason Alan is scared of it now.

He spots the gully a little ways off to his right and makes a beeline for it, immediately feeling safer once he's out of sight between those steep, rocky walls.

Remembering a tip from Gordon, he steps back into a shady alcove and pauses to listen and observe, making sure that he's truly alone in his haven. Five minutes later, things are still quiet and peaceful, so he continues on his way through the ravine.

He keeps his movements calm and deliberate as he climbs, selecting handholds with care and even focusing on not breathing too loudly so that he won't alert anyone in the vicinity to his presence.

He'd learned that from Gordon too, a couple hours earlier, when instead of panicking and running away from the hail of gunfire from the poachers, Gordon had jerked Alan down and they had just calmly and quietly crawled away, disappearing into the tall grass. In fact, Gordon had been so calm and quiet that Alan hadn't even known he'd been shot until he collapsed twenty minutes later.

So Alan takes his time getting up to the level of the camp, and when he's finally at the top of the gully, he moves very, very slowly as he peeks over the edge into the camp, Gordon's words about fast movements catching attention ringing in his ears.

He studies the camp. It appears deserted, and his initial feeling is a wave of relief. He comes very, very close to pulling himself up over the lip of the ravine in that moment. But then something catches his eye, and he frowns.

Gordon runs a tight ship when they go camping. His bedroom at home might look like a war zone, but something about camping brings out his inner neat freak. Alan thinks it probably goes back to Gordon's time in the military. Everything has a place in their campsite, and every morning before he and Alan set out on a hike, Gordon makes sure that nothing has strayed from its proper place.

Which is why the way the tent flap blows in the breeze makes Alan's nerves jangle. And why the crumpled candy bar wrapper on the ground by their table gives him the shivers.

Now that he's looking for them, he can see more clues – one of the stones around their fire pit has been knocked loose. There are other papers and wrappers left on the ground, scattered carelessly around the campsite. A jacket that Alan doesn't recognize has been tossed on the back of one of their camp chairs.

Well, at least all of this reinforces Gordon's assertion that the poachers aren't highly trained. Surely professionals would never leave such obvious clues strewn around.

But the poachers are still dangerous, and it looks like they have possession of the camp, which is a distinct problem.

The question is, where are the poachers now?

Remembering Gordon's comment about the long range of the poachers' rifles, Alan glances around, trying to think where the men would be likely to post a sniper. There's one tree at the far end of the plateau that seems the only possibility, but sniping is more Gordon's forte than Alan's, so he doesn't want to jump to conclusions.

He turns his gaze back to the tent.

Belly crawl in, Gordon had said. Grab the watches, then duck right back into the gully.

It had sounded so easy.

But now Alan's breath is catching in the back of his throat, and his heart is fluttering in his chest as he studies the bare patch of ground between him and the tent. It's probably only fifty feet, but they've trampled down most of the grass, and the thought of crossing that open area – of being so _exposed_ – has Alan fighting back mind-numbing terror.

He ducks back into the gully, slumping down against a rock and wrapping his arms around his knees.

He can't do it.

He's not trained for this.

He wishes that it _had_ been him who had been shot – that he was the one lying under the tree, and that Gordon was the one in this gully right now. Gordon would know what to do. He has military training, as well as a certain type of creative thinking that allows him to outthink his opponents and come out on top ninety-nine percent of the time. There's a reason that the brothers always draw straws to try to get Gordon as their partner when they play paintball.

But Alan's the one in the gully, and Gordon is the one lying under that tree.

Alan's not trained.

But he _has_ to do it.

So he pokes his head back up, peering through a curtain of grass and trying to think like Gordon.

Okay, so the tree is really the only place that's likely to offer a clear shot at Alan as he crawls in – if anyone is positioned in the grass, they're only going to be able to see him if he stands up. So how can he keep from being seen by anyone in the tree?

It comes to him all at once, and he scrambles a few feet further to his right. This time, when he looks toward the camp, the tent blocks his view of the tree – and, theoretically, if he can't see the tree, then no one in the tree can see him.

 _Okay_ , he thinks. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. _All right._ _It's go time._

Before he can change his mind, he slithers up over the edge of the ravine. Moving a bit faster now, but keeping as low as humanly possible, he crawls across the open space.

If he's honest with himself, he's expecting to hear the crack of a high-powered rifle at any second, to feel the sudden, sharp, shattering pain of a bullet lodging in his spine.

But nothing happens. The camp is still and quiet, and even though it feels like a lifetime has passed, it's only seconds before Alan is pulling himself up to the side of the tent.

He reaches for the side panel and crawls underneath, sliding into the tent.

It's only after he's inside that it occurs to him that he should have checked first to make sure no poachers were waiting in the tent. They've clearly been inside – all of Alan and Gordon's stuff is scattered across the floor, and Alan wouldn't be surprised to discover that plenty of it is missing too.

His heart skips a beat as that thought takes hold – stuff might be missing – stuff like their watches!

But then he remembers that Gordon thinks of things like that, and he heaves a sigh of relief when he sees the plain metal case sitting untouched in the far corner. There's a rubber number pad on it, and Alan quickly enters the password, unlocking the box and turning off the electrical current that flows through the rest of the case. He hopes that some of the poachers got a nasty jolt when they tried to touch the box.

He slips on his watch, and suddenly he feels a whole lot better about everything.

He's about to call his brothers when a sudden sound freezes the motion – voices. Voices and footsteps are approaching the tent.

He glances around wildly and dives under his cot, pulling the blanket down over the edge, just as two people push aside the tent flap and stalk inside.

They keep their rifles in their hands as they poke through Gordon and Alan's possessions, jabbering away to each other in a language Alan doesn't understand. He can pick up on the gist of the conversation, though – they're admiring one of Gordon's colorful shirts, and then they're laughing as they figure out how Alan's electric razor works…and then they're making admiring sounds as they pick up a picture of Tintin.

Alan clenches his fists at that and begins counting backwards from one hundred…now is _not_ the time to lose his temper.

They take twenty minutes to collect what they want to keep, with Alan chafing the entire time, knowing that Gordon is waiting – _bleeding_ – under that tree.

At one point, he hesitates as he considers pushing the emergency signal on his watch, thinking that anything that gets his brothers moving sooner is good, but then he realizes that their immediate response would be to radio him back and ask him what's wrong.

So he waits. And waits. And _waits_.

The men finally leave, arms piled high with stuff they've pillaged. Alan waits just a little bit longer, until he's sure they're really gone, then cautiously peeks out from under the edge of the tent.

The way is clear, so he crawls back across the open area and drops over the edge of the gully – and lands squarely on top of one of the poachers.

The man goes down with a yell, just as startled as Alan is…and Alan discovers that maybe – just _maybe_ – he actually does have some relevant training, because his instincts carry him forward to meet the rising poacher. There are a few quick motions – ones that Scott had drilled into him long ago, and that he hadn't realized he still remembered – and suddenly the poacher is sprawled on the ground, out cold.

His mind and body want to react to what just happened, but Alan knows that if he pauses now, he and Gordon are dead meat. The poachers will eventually discover that one of their men is down, and then they'll know that Alan and Gordon are still around somewhere.

So Alan abandons all care and scrambles down the gulley as fast as he can without breaking a leg, activating his watch at the same time.

"Thunderbird Five, come in," he says.

A pleasantly accented female voice answers him. "Thunderbird Five here. How is your vacation going, Alan?"

Oh. Right. Because two of their operatives are on vacation, John is planet side and Tintin's on Five. Alan knows this, but he had forgotten, and it's thrown him for a loop. "Tintin!" he stammers. "Uh, it's going – well, uh, can you just connect me to Scott? Please and thanks!"

"Oh, of course," she says, sounding startled. "Alan, is everything all right?"

"Nope," he says. He reaches the bottom of the gully and lengthens out into a run. "But I'll have to wait to tell you about it, okay?"

"Okay, Alan," she says. Her voice sounds distracted now; she's probably connecting his watch to the island. "Here's Scott."

"Scott?" Alan calls out. "You there?"

"Alan?" Scott says. "Hey, how's it going? You guys having fun?"

"No," Alan tells him. His foot catches on some grass and he nearly goes sprawling. He slows down to a jog, both so that he doesn't fall on his face and so that he can talk with some level of coherency. "Short story – Gordon annoyed some poachers, they shot him, and now we're on the run through the Serengeti. I could use a little help out here!"

He listens in satisfaction as Scott apparently covers the watch and bellows, "Virgil! Get your medical bag, grab John, and meet me in Thunderbird One!" Then his voice sounds closer. "All right, we're on our way, Alan. I'll keep radio silence so I don't give away your position, but keep us posted as much as possible. Okay? Hang in there!"

"Will do," Alan says firmly, feeling a tremendous weight lift off his shoulders.

The heat drags at him, sapping his energy, and he remembers that he only has a limited supply of water. Of course, that shouldn't be a concern much longer, since his brothers are on the way, but he slows down anyway.

It's probably his slower pace that saves him from being noticed.

He's almost back to the tree when he sees movement and instinctively dives into the grass. Heart pounding, he peeks back up after a second.

"No, no, no," he whispers. "Please, no!"

But he can't do anything to stop what's happening, and he watches with despair as several of the poachers gather up Gordon's limp figure and carry him toward the plateau.

When they're out of hearing range, Alan flops back in the grass and activates his watch. "Scott? Things just got way, way worse."

And some weird part of him chooses that moment to think, _You broke your promise, Gordon._


	2. Chapter 2

_BTW, forgot to specify this in the first chapter, but in case anyone didn't figure it out, I'm envisioning this as TOS, not TAG._

Virgil stops as Scott holds up one hand.

"What is it?" John asks, shifting his backpack to a more comfortable position. His face is flushed, and Virgil hopes that he remembered to put sunscreen on.

Scott is looking down at his scanner and frowning. "He should be right around here somewhere," he says, glancing at the tall, waving grass that surrounds them for miles on either side.

They all jump when Alan pops up right in front of them, his blonde hair, tan skin, and khaki clothes proving their value as camouflage in the golden grass. He launches himself toward Scott and stops just short of hugging him. "Guys!" he says. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you!"

Virgil notices that Alan looks relieved, but that he's not smiling. Not a big surprise – no one feels like smiling with the report of Gordon's plight uncomfortably fresh in all of their minds.

Scott, characteristically, takes a minute to check up on Alan. He puts his hand on his shoulder, looking him over with an eagle eye. "You're okay, Al?" he asks. "You're not hurt?"

Alan shakes his head, even as he rubs at a light scrape on his arm. "I'm fine," he replies. "Tired, and kind of wishing Gordon wasn't such an idiotically dedicated conservationist, but fine."

John snorts. "But he saved the elephants, right? So he probably doesn't care that he got shot."

That gets a little smile. "Yep, that's almost exactly what he said. You know him too well, Johnny."

Scott looks Alan up and down one more time, then nods, satisfied. "Okay, so where's this plateau?"

"A couple miles on the other side of those trees," Alan says, pointing to a small patch of Acacia trees and scrub brush a little ways distant. "The campsite has really good views, which is why I had you guys approach from this angle. Figured I didn't want them to know that I've got backup now."

"Yeah, that's smart," Scott agrees absently, his eyes narrowed as if he's trying to see through the trees. He glances toward the setting sun and then down at his watch. "All right, so here's the plan – we'll go in after dark–"

"After dark!" Alan explodes. "But – but, that's not for another hour! Gordon's bleeding – he could be _dying_ –"

His voice chokes out, and he sinks to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

For the first time, Virgil notices the lines of dark red around Alan's fingernails, and he realizes that the smudge on his arm isn't actually a scrape – it's a smear of blood.

Gordon's blood.

Virgil's breath catches in his throat, his gut clenching as he's suddenly struck by the _realness_ of the situation. They'd talked about it on the way over, of course, but talking about Gordon being shot is not the same as seeing his blood on Alan's hands. Gordon's out there somewhere, bleeding, in pain, a helpless prisoner in the hands of the men who shot him.

Virgil watches Scott crouch down by Alan, rubbing his back and murmuring soothing words, and for a split second he wants to take his youngest brother's side and argue for an immediate assault on the plateau.

But then Alan's speaking again. "No, no," he says, pushing Scott's hands away and standing up. He takes a couple of stiff-legged steps away from them before he stops, his arms straight at his sides and his hands clenched into fists. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'm sorry."

He wipes at his face with shaking hands and then turns to face them, his eyes red-rimmed and weary. "I'm okay. It's just – it's been a really bad day, and Gordon – well, it's _Gordon_ , though. You know how he is. He's joking, and you're thinking, okay, maybe it's not so bad…but then you catch him in a second when he thinks you're not watching, and you know that he's really, really hurting…I just…I don't want to leave him alone up there for any longer than I have to."

"I know, Alan, I know," Scott says softly. "I don't want to leave him alone any more than you do, but you know we can't just go charging up that hill in broad daylight. From what you've said, the only stealthy way up there is the gully, and now they know about that, so that doesn't really leave us much to work with."

Alan nods. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You're right – you're right." He takes a deep, shuddering breath, visibly pulling himself together. "So…what's the rest of the plan?"

Scott gathers his thoughts. "Right, so before anything else, I want you to take us to the edge of those trees so we can see the plateau and pick out the best route for tonight. You'll need to describe the layout of the camp as best as you can, as well as any other details of the landscape that might be helpful. We've got night vision goggles, but it's good to have a solid sense of what we're walking into."

Virgil watches the resolve grow on Alan's face as Scott speaks – it makes all the difference in the world to have a solid plan, he knows, and Scott has a natural talent for inspiring confidence.

"Once it's completely dark and the camp looks quiet," Scott continues, "we'll climb up. We're going to do our dead level best to extract Gordon without anyone noticing, but if conflict is unavoidable, I want you and Virgil to get Gordon out of there. John and I will cover for you."

"How do we know they're planning to spend the night there?" John asks.

Alan shrugs. "They were still up there when I checked fifteen minutes ago." He hesitates. "The one thing I've been wondering, though, is – what do they _want_ with Gordon? Why would they bring him back to the camp instead of just – just, putting a bullet in his head when they found him?"

Scott winces. "I don't know, Alan," he admits.

"Maybe ransom?" John suggests. "If they've gone through your stuff, they know who you are. Maybe they recognized the name 'Tracy' and thought they'd try to get some money out of him."

Virgil can think of a couple other options, and as he meets Scott's eyes, he knows his oldest brother has had the same thoughts. Rather than bring them up, because ultimately the discussion is pointless anyway, Virgil changes the subject as he starts walking toward the trees. "Do you know if they're still actively looking for you, Al?" he asks.

His brothers hurry after him, Scott slipping into the lead position, alert and scanning for danger.

Alan shrugs. He looks bone weary, and Virgil and John settle into place on either side of him. "I haven't seen or heard anyone since they took Gordon away, but that doesn't necessarily mean they're not out there."

Scott shushes them as they approach the trees, and they pick their way cautiously through the forested area, watching and listening for any hint that something is out of the ordinary.

In ten minutes, they're crawling up under a bush at the edge of the plains. Scott pulls a pair of binoculars from his pack and studies the plateau.

John has a pair too; he takes a quick look and then passes the binoculars over to Virgil.

The sun is setting, the angle of the golden light casting all the little irregularities of the plateau into sharp relief. The gully is a dark, ragged gash off to one side; as he trails the binoculars up to the top, a flicker of movement catches Virgil's eye, and a chill ripples down his spine as he adjusts the focusing ring of the binoculars – a man is pacing back and forth at the top of the ravine, a rifle nestled in the crook of his arm.

"One guard at the top of the gully," he murmurs.

"I see him," Scott acknowledges.

Virgil sweeps his gaze across the surface of the plateau, seeing plenty more figures as he searches. Only a couple of them seem to be standing guard, though – the others are setting up camp.

There's no sign of Gordon – not that he had really expected there to be, but it would have been nice to have some reassurance that his brother was still alive.

He passes the binoculars to Alan and lets out a sigh. "Well, looks like they're planning to stay the night, anyway. They've got a fire going."

"The tent's still up," Alan comments. He lowers the binoculars.

Virgil glances at him and lets out a short, involuntary laugh – there are dark smudges around Alan's eyes. "Looks like Gordon got to these binoculars at some point," he says.

Alan smirks a little and points at Virgil's face. "You and John used them first."

"Gotta love that kid," Virgil says wryly. "He somehow manages to get us with a prank even at a time like this."

Scott puts his binoculars away and turns to face them. There's the barest hint of a smile in his blue eyes as he watches the three of them rub at the dark smears around their eyes. "Don't bother," he says. "We'll be putting on face paint anyway." He hands a small canister to John. "Go ahead and put it on – it'll be dark soon, and we'll have a narrow window of opportunity before the moon rises. We want to be in and out before then."

John pops the lid off the canister and grimaces at the black glop inside. "Have you picked a route yet?" He gingerly dips a finger into the paint and starts dabbing it onto his face.

Scott rolls his eyes. "Here, let me help." He scoots closer to John and scoops up a big blob of the paint, spreading it across John's face in broad strokes. "All right, so here's the plan. John and I will set out as soon as it's dark and circle around to the back side of the plateau. Virg, you and Alan will give us about a twenty minute head start, then head up the front side of the plateau – avoiding the guards, of course. Now, the hope is that we'll all get up there undetected, meet at the tent, and carry Gordon back down together – I've got a collapsible stretcher here that I'll send with you guys. But if something should go wrong, you two will lay low, and John and I will draw the poachers to the far end of the plateau so that you can still get to Gordon. If we get separated, we'll meet back here in the trees."

Virgil is helping Alan put his face paint on; he pauses to spear Scott with a glance. "You two are planning to go up against a dozen armed poachers – in the dark?"

Scott shrugs. "I've got some smoke bombs in case things get tricky for John and me. We'll be okay."

John makes a face at Virgil behind Scott's back, his blue eyes vivid against the black paint. He mouths, "Want to trade teams?"

Virgil smirks and shakes his head, pointing to the medic symbol on his backpack.

Scott looks between the two of them with a question on his face, but doesn't push for an answer.

By the time they're done talking and everyone has their face paint on, the sun has set, and the sky is fading from gold to steel to indigo, the stars gradually scattering across the heavens in a blaze of glory.

Scott hands out the night vision goggles. "All right, everyone's watches set to low volume?" he asks, glancing around at them. "I want us to maintain radio silence if at all possible, though. John, you ready?" He stands up and claps John on the shoulder.

John huffs as he climbs to his feet. "As I'll ever be," he mutters. He salutes Virgil and Alan. "Catch you guys later!"

Scott and John disappear into the dark grass, followed by a whisper of wind that hides the sound of their footsteps, making it seem like they've been whisked away into the night.

Virgil and Alan sit in silence for a minute.

Then Alan speaks up, his voice young and pleading. "Do you think Gordon's gonna be okay?"

The correct answer is "Hard to say." But Virgil gives the answer he knows Alan is looking for: "Sure he is. This is _Gordon_ , after all. He'll be fine!"

The words ring hollow, but Virgil doesn't regret saying them.

"Yeah," Alan sighs. "He's probably been cracking stupid jokes this whole time, trying to get the poachers to smile."

Virgil will be very surprised if Gordon is even conscious, much less joking. "Undoubtedly," he says.

They're quiet for another ten minutes, and then it's time to start hiking. Butterflies flutter in Virgil's stomach as he stands up – this is a little outside the normal scope of rescues for them.

But Alan heaves a sigh of relief. "I can't wait to be done with this day," he says. "C'mon."

The world looks strange when it's glowing neon green. Virgil flicks the lens over to infrared mode, and Alan becomes a flaming beacon a few steps ahead of him, a person-shaped swirl of red, orange and yellow.

Alan leads the way at a jog for the first mile, then slows down to a brisk walk, skillfully picking a path through the rustling grass.

At one point, Virgil hears something over to his right; he glances that way, and his breath catches in his throat as he sees a large, feline shape slipping away from them.

Right – they're in the Serengeti. There are lots of large, predatory animals in the Serengeti. He thinks that one was probably a leopard.

He shivers and keeps walking.

As they get closer to the plateau, he can begin to pick out a couple of flashes of yellow at the top – two guards, one posted on each corner. Alan crouches lower and Virgil follows his example; they're moving slower now, too, cautiously making their way up the long slope. By the time they reach the top, they're crawling, slithering on their bellies up to the edge of the clearing.

They pause there to survey the scene.

The fire has burned down to a bed of glowing coals – which shows up as a brilliant white spot on Virgil's lenses – and there are several figures bundled in blankets on the ground around the fire pit.

Two more guards stand some distance off, at the far corners of the plateau, and another keeps watch at the top of the gully.

Virgil's pulse picks up as he catches a bit of motion on the opposite end of the clearing – a couple splashes of yellow, low to the ground…must be Scott and John.

The fabric of the tent is rippling gently in the breeze. Virgil studies the structure, wishing that it was farther from the men sleeping around the fire, and especially that it was farther from the guard by the gully.

The goggles register one prone figure inside the tent. _Gordon_ , Virgil thinks.

Alan takes charge again, crawling forward, and Virgil remembers that he's already done this once today. He wonders if it's easier the second time, because it sure takes a lot of guts to slither out into that open space for the first time.

Alan lifts the side of the tent and slides underneath, Virgil right at his heels.

Virgil cautiously stands and glances around the inside of the tent. It's almost bare, stripped of everything but the two cots. A person is sprawled across one cot, sleeping.

Heart thundering, Virgil switches his goggles back to regular night vision, hoping to get a quick assessment of Gordon's condition before they move him. He bends over the figure on the cot – and then stumbles backward with a gasp.

"What?" Alan demands in a whisper. "Virg, what is it?"

Virgil swallows against a sudden sick feeling in his stomach. "Alan…that's not – it isn't–"

And the poacher who's asleep on the cot – the poacher that they had assumed was Gordon – chooses that moment to wake up, letting out a cry of terror as he sees the dark shapes bending over him.


	3. Chapter 3

_Lol, this chapter just dragged and dragged and dragged…hope it's not too rough._

It takes every ounce of John's self control to stay huddled in the grass beside Scott when he knows that two of his brothers are fighting a losing battle less than a hundred yards away.

But Virgil's words from a minute earlier make a lot of sense, so he wrestles his instincts into submission and stays plastered to the ground, his eyes fixed on the tent on the far side of the plateau – the tent that Virgil and Alan are in, and which eight poachers have just poured into.

There's a distant _crack_ , and one poacher goes stumbling backwards out of the tent, knees wobbly. The flimsy structure billows and ripples from all the movement inside; John sees the outline of a figure hitting the side wall and bouncing back.

John clenches his fists, wishing that he could feel the sting of his knuckles connecting with someone's jaw…but no, Gordon needs him even more than Virgil and Alan do right now, so he needs to stay still.

Approximately ninety seconds earlier, John and Scott had been crawling across the plateau, planning to rendezvous with Virgil and Alan, retrieve Gordon from the tent, and escape back to Thunderbird One – when suddenly a loud cry had cut through the still night air.

Like puppets on strings, all the poachers sleeping around the campfire had boiled to their feet, shouting and grabbing their rifles. The guards at the corners of the plateau started to converge on the scene too.

Before John could do more than blink in surprise, Virgil's voice had begun tumbling out of Scott's watch, low and intense and fast – clearly he knew that he only had seconds to get important words out. "Scott," he had snapped. "Gordon's not in here! It was a poacher, and he just woke up the camp. Things could get hairy for us in a second here, but I think you two should stay in hiding so you're still free to find Gordon. Okay?"

The words freeze John – this is _not_ how things were supposed to work out! – but thankfully, Scott thinks faster than he does, and there's a reluctant, "FAB" from the brother crouched by John's side.

It's a quick fight. Virgil and Alan make a significant dent in the poachers in the first sixty seconds, but ultimately they're no match against so many, and soon they're being dragged out of the tent to stand illuminated by the harsh red glow of the coals in the fire pit.

Someone tosses an armful of logs onto the coals, and sparks shoot up toward the heavens, twinkling among the stars for one brief moment. The flames leap high, casting a flickering yellow light over John's brothers.

One man approaches Virgil and Alan, and John can see Virgil subtly angling his wrist so that his watch is pointing toward the man.

It's strange to be able to see the poacher's mouth moving, but hear the words coming through Scott's watch. John and Scott huddle closer together so that they won't miss anything.

"Who are you, and how did you get here?" the poacher asks, his English accented but clear.

"We're a covert team sent in to extract the American you kidnapped earlier today," Virgil says boldly. "Where is he?"

John smirks. Virgil had spoken the truth, but he had managed to make it sound way more intimidating than reality.

The poacher studies his prisoner's faces. "I think that you are lying," he says. He points at Alan. "This one was with the other one earlier today. I think that you are the other Tracy boy, which makes me happy, because I know someone who is very good at getting money from people like your father." He glances at Virgil. "I do not know who you are. Are you also the son of a wealthy man?"

Virgil shrugs. "Doesn't matter who I am. I just want to know where Gordon is."

The poacher shrugs too. His back is to the fire, masking his expression in deep shadow, but John can hear the evil glee in his voice when he says, "You do not need to worry about him any more."

Instantly, four Tracy brothers clench their jaws and their fists. John wishes that looks could kill, because if they did, that poacher would be a smudge on the ground right now.

Alan fights uselessly against the men restraining him. "You – you–" he chokes out. "What did you do to him?"

The poacher lets out a hard, cold laugh. "Nothing. He has done it to himself, the young fool. We thought that he was too weak to move, but when we weren't watching him, he crawled to one of our jeeps and escaped. What he didn't realize was that he picked the only jeep that was almost out of fuel. Right now he is doubtless stranded only a few miles away. The lions will probably leave him alone, but if they do not, it's no great loss – I would have been surprised if he had survived until morning anyway. We will search for him tomorrow and bring him back if he still lives."

Scott sucks in a sharp breath, but John can't breathe at all. He feels the dark void of the night pressing against his back like a weight. Gordon's out there somewhere, badly injured and _alone_? John has to forcibly push away a mental picture of a pride of lions circling a stalled-out jeep, of a lone figure slumped over the steering wheel in the middle of the vast plains of the Serengeti.

Only one question remains – do they leave Virgil and Alan in the hands of the poachers for the time being, or do they try to rescue them before going after Gordon?

Virgil answers that. "Don't be surprised if you don't find him – the kid's got guardian angels like you wouldn't believe. They're probably on their way to help him _right now_ , as a matter of fact."

 _Hint, hint._ That's Virgil's way of telling Scott and John to get going, if they haven't already.

Scott snorts and turns off his watch. "Angels. Right. Nice, Virg." He nudges John. "C'mon, let's go see if Gordon left us any jeeps that _do_ have gas."

John pulls his night-vision goggles back down over his eyes, flicking over to the infrared mode so that he'll be able to spot any poachers still standing guard at this end of the plateau. A quick scan indicates that they've all joined the hubbub at the campfire end, though, leaving the row of jeeps free for the taking. They've even left the keys in the ignition.

Scott steps up into the driver's seat of the jeep closest to the end and shifts it into neutral. "Give me a push," he hisses.

John plants his feet, crouches low, and pushes; once the vehicle starts rolling, he trots to catch up and swings into the passenger seat.

It's an eerie journey down the hill with no engine noise – just the swish of tall grass against the sides of the jeep and the dry crackle of tires over loose dirt. Scott doesn't turn on the headlights, and the rutted path shows up as a cool violet in John's goggles; something small and glowing a brilliant yellow dives into the brush as they approach.

They finally coast to a stop at the bottom of the hill, and Scott starts the engine. He checks the gas gauge and nods in satisfaction. "Half a tank," he says, not bothering to keep his voice quiet any more – they're far enough away that the poachers won't hear him. He still doesn't turn the headlights on, though.

They drive at a brisk pace down the winding, bumpy little road, constantly scanning back and forth, watching for any sign of Gordon's vehicle.

As desperate as he is to find Gordon, John finds himself fighting the nearly-constant urge to look back over his shoulder, as if he could see his other brothers. He sighs. "Wish we had some way to make sure Virg and Alan are doing okay."

Scott's fingers tighten on the steering wheel. "Yeah," he says shortly.

They drive on; after a few minutes, they round a bend, and Scott slams on the brakes.

John's out of the jeep before it has stopped moving, sprinting toward the figure sprawled on the ground beside another jeep nearly identical to their own.

Scott catches up to him, and they drop to their knees at the same moment.

Scott reaches with shaking fingers for the side of Gordon's throat, and there's a pause that feels like a lifetime before he lets out his breath, his eyes closing. "He's still with us," he says softly. He brushes Gordon's hair back off his forehead. "We're here now, Gords. You're gonna be okay."

John tries to ignore how very, very still Gordon is as he and Scott work together to assess their younger brother's condition. The words " _I wish Virgil was here_ " hover on the tip of John's tongue the whole time, but they don't have time for pointless words, so he leaves them unsaid.

He feels clumsy as he works. He's trained, of course – and Scott's also trained, and has quite a bit more experience than John – but the two of them are merely competent, as compared to Virgil, who is intuitive.

And Virgil has the backpack full of medical supplies, so there's really not much that they even _can_ do except figure out how to get Gordon home without making him worse.

They bundle him up in the back seat of the jeep with an emergency blanket. John heads for the passenger seat, but Scott stops him with a single word.

"Wait."

John swings around and sees Scott standing still, his face pensive. Then Scott sighs and grabs a can of gasoline from the back of their jeep. He walks toward the stalled vehicle and unscrews the gas cap.

"Take Gordon to Thunderbird One and get him home," he says. "I'm going back for Virgil and Alan." He tips the can back and listens to the fuel trickle down into the vehicle's gas tank.

"Scott!" John exclaims. "You're going back in there… _alone_?"

Scott gestures toward Gordon. "These people have already proven how little regard they have for human life. How do we know that they won't decide that it's not worth the bother to keep both Virgil and Alan alive long enough for Dad to pay a ransom? I'm not leaving our brothers in their hands for any longer than I have to." He spears John with a look. "You remember where the hover stretcher is in One? And you're up to date on your simulation training for her, right?"

John nods. "Yeah, yeah, I'm up to date, but, _Scott_ …" He stops himself with a sigh. He wants Virgil and Alan back too. "Just – be careful, okay?"

Scott grins. He tosses the empty gas can in the back of his jeep and swings up into the driver's seat, patting the dashboard with a satisfied smile when the sturdy engine fires up immediately. "I was born careful!" he shouts as he whips the vehicle around in the narrow track. He starts to squeeze the vehicle past John's jeep, but he stops halfway and looks John in the eyes. The grin is gone now. "You be careful too," he says. He nods toward John's back seat. "Precious cargo."

John nods soberly. "Yeah, believe me, I know." He sighs again. "Okay, Scott. I'll be back in a couple hours to pick you guys up."

Scott nods once, decisively, and guns the engine, quickly disappearing from sight.

John lets out a long sigh. "Looks like it's just you and me, Gords," he says, and starts the engine.

He drives as carefully as he can, torn between getting Gordon help as soon as possible and trying not to jostle him too badly.

It's a couple miles back to Thunderbird One. She's tucked behind a low ridge; when they had landed, they had come in at minimal elevation to avoid alerting the poachers. There wasn't really anything they could do to actually hide her, but she's at least out of the line of sight of the plateau.

John pulls the jeep up close to the sleek rocket plane and vaults out into the grass. He hurries up the ladder into the cockpit and grabs the hover stretcher, then climbs back down.

Gordon stirs slightly as John maneuvers him onto the stretcher.

"Outta gas," he murmurs. "Gotta find Al…hope he's okay…"

John runs his hand over Gordon's hair, his heart clenching as he looks down into his younger brother's pinched face. "Alan's fine," he tells him, hoping desperately that it's true. "Scott and Virg are with him."

Activating the stretcher, John guides it back toward Thunderbird One, trying to remember how he's supposed to get it inside the cockpit – it's not like he's ever done this before.

As he stands there, thinking, a sound catches his attention, and he spins around. That sounds like – but… _that_ can't be good. He's hearing a jeep approaching at high speed. All he can think of is that something went terribly wrong with Scott's rescue attempt, and the poachers are coming after him and Gordon.

That's a thought that gets the pulse racing.

He clambers up the ladder, one hand on the rungs and the other on the stretcher's control panel, wishing that the hover technology had a high speed setting. He can see one set of headlights rapidly approaching Thunderbird One, bouncing wildly up and down as the jeep guns it over the rough terrain. Some distance back, he sees three other sets of headlights, confirming his fear that the poachers are chasing him down.

When he finally reaches the top of the ladder, he pushes the stretcher inside and quickly buckles it in place, making sure Gordon is secure. He wishes he had time to start an I.V., but he'll have to save that for later in the flight. Right now he needs to get off the ground.

His hands fly over the controls, not as fast as Scott could have done it, but he's done enough simulations to have decent muscle memory. In twenty seconds, One's engines are roaring, and she's champing at the bit, ready to take off.

John glances out the window one last time. He can see the people in the lead jeep now, and to his surprise, one of them seems to be waving at him.

He sets his face and starts to lift off – but at that moment, the jeep skids to a halt right in front of him and Scott's voice explodes from his watch.

"John!" Scott snaps. "It's us! Let down the ladder!"

"FAB," John says, hastily setting One back down and wincing at the less-than-gentle bump. But then he suddenly can't remember where the switch is for the ladder. His fingers scramble across the control panel for a very long five seconds before he finds the right button and mashes it with his fist. He hurriedly unbuckles his five-point harness and leaps across the cockpit to the door, extending a helping hand to his ascending brothers.

Alan pops up first, his paint-darkened face giving John a momentary start. But then he pulls Alan up and slaps his shoulder as his youngest brother darts past to a seat.

Virgil climbs aboard next, and then Scott.

Scott dives for the pilot's seat, while the others hurriedly strap themselves into jump seats.

"Good to see you guys," John says. He can't help it – he's grinning. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and turns to see Virgil smiling at him. Then John has to grab his harness, his stomach lurching as Scott kicks Thunderbird One straight up to a thousand feet.

Only then does Scott twist around to return John's grin. "It's a bit sooner than I had expected, but it's good to see you too," he says. Another smooth, practiced maneuver, and they're well on their way to One's ideal altitude and speed, rapidly leaving the Serengeti and its poachers far behind. "Thanks for starting One up for me."

"What happened?" John demands. "How did you rescue them so quickly?"

Scott laughs, and his teeth look unusually white against his dark face. "Why don't you ask them? I actually don't know – I found them running from the camp. They jumped in the jeep, and we took off as fast as we could."

"We waited for them to relax a bit, then made a break for the gully. We dropped down in there, climbed to the bottom, and then circled around the base of the plateau," Virgil says absently. He has unbuckled his harness and is bent over Gordon, working to set up an I.V.

Alan adds, "I think the night-vision goggles are what gave us the advantage. The poachers fired a few shots, but they were way off." He's slumped in his seat, limp with exhaustion, but his eyes are fixed on Gordon. "We gonna need to take him to a hospital, Virg?"

"I'll be able to tell you that a lot better by the end of the flight," Virgil says. "It really depends on how he responds to treatment in the next hour. Have we given Brains a heads-up on what to expect?"

Scott grimaces. "Tell you what – you call Brains, and I'll call Dad. As far as I know, he hasn't heard a thing since we dashed out of the house hours ago. He's gotta be about ready to have a coronary by now."

John winces as he realizes that he's not sure he would have remembered to call the island. An interesting anomaly, he thinks, especially since he's the one who has occasionally chewed down his fingernails to raw stubs during the long waits for information he sometimes has to endure when he's on Five.

By the time Brains and their father are properly updated, Thunderbird One is in final approach to the island. Virgil buckles himself back in until the ship is done moving, then hurries to maneuver Gordon's stretcher out into the hangar. Scott jumps forward to help Virgil, while John hangs back with Alan, making sure the exhausted youngest brother is steady on his feet.

Jeff, Brains and Tintin are waiting for them. They all blink at the sight of the face paint, but then, as one, their eyes go to Gordon's pallid face.

"Any change?" Jeff asks grimly, bending over the stretcher and resting a gentle hand on Gordon's shoulder. He flinches as he glances down toward the blood-crusted bandage.

"His vitals have improved a bit," Virgil says, reaching to adjust the drip rate of Gordon's I.V. "You think we're gonna need to take him to the mainland for surgery, Brains?" He begins pushing the stretcher toward the infirmary.

"I'd, uh, rather have a surgeon come here," Brains says, straightening his glasses as he walks.

Virgil nods. They have just a few contacts that they trust with the secret of International Rescue. It's not often that they have to call upon them for help, but once in a while it's necessary to bring in a specialist.

"I'd like to, uh, run some scans first," Brains adds. "It is possible that surgery, uh, will not be n-necessary."

They reach the infirmary, and Brains guides the stretcher inside, followed by Tintin. Virgil pauses and faces the rest of his family. "We'll let you know when he's ready for visitors," he says, and shuts the door.

John and Alan sigh at the same time, and shoot each other a quick, tired smile.

"Well," their father says, sounding like he's at something of a loss. He glances toward Scott, John and Alan. "I suppose you three should take the time to get cleaned up. If your grandmother sees you like that…"

John winces.

"Hmm, yeah," Alan says. But he doesn't move, except to slump against the wall.

Scott turns to study Alan. "Hey, you've been moving all day, Alan," he says. "When's the last time you ate or drank anything?"

Alan blinks slowly up at him. "Uh, I dunno," he replies.

"All right, come on," Scott tells him. "Let's at least get some water into you."

John follows as they head up to the kitchen – he thinks he might be hungry, now that he's finally slowed down enough to pay attention to what his body is telling him.

As they approach the kitchen, they sniff appreciatively at the delicious smells wafting their way. When they enter the room, they find that Kyrano, with his finely developed sense of service, has a meal ready for them – hot chicken sandwiches, French fries and milkshakes. He sets a sandwich and some fries aside for Virgil, wrapping them in foil and placing them in the oven.

Kyrano doesn't usually cook much in the way of comfort food, so John suspects that the man is doing his best to cheer them up after their long, hard day.

It works, too. By the time they're done eating, John feels refreshed and energized.

They wash their faces before walking back down to the infirmary.

Virgil is just exiting the room; he's washed his face too, and John frowns as he notices the shadow of a bruise starting along his younger brother's jaw line. One of the poachers must have gotten in a solid hit during the fight – although Virgil's raw knuckles show that he paid the bruise back in full. John wishes that he had had a chance to take a swing at one – or more – of the poachers too.

Their father stands up from his chair. "How is he, Virgil?" he asks.

Virgil looks tired, but his eyes are peaceful. "He's going to be all right, Dad," he says. He grins faintly. "I don't know how he does it, but he's managed to defy the odds yet again – we got the bullet out, and all the scans indicate that it really didn't cause much damage, all things considered. He lost a lot of blood, and he's going to be in pain for a while, but barring complications, he should be out of bed and on the road to recovery within a few days or a week."

A collective sigh of relief flows around the hallway, and John watches his father's eyes close briefly.

"That's good news, son," Jeff says softly. "Can we see him?"

Virgil nods, and they all crowd into the room. Brains and Tintin respectfully retreat to the far corner, softly conferring over Gordon's medical charts.

Alan makes a beeline for the chair by the bed, and he seems truly relaxed for the first time that day as he reaches for Gordon's hand.

To John's surprise, Gordon stirs at the touch, and his murky amber eyes slowly blink open. He turns his head and looks at Alan; his gaze is slightly unfocused, but he grins.

"Hi, Al," he slurs.

"Hi, Gordon," Alan replies. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, I'm good," Gordon says slowly. He's still pale, but his color is a lot better than it was an hour earlier. He laughs. "Actually, I feel great!"

John sees Scott nudge Virgil and mouth, "Morphine?"

Virgil nods, a tiny smirk on his face.

"Hey, Al?" Gordon asks.

"Yeah, Gords?"

"We did save the elephants, right? It wasn't just a dream?"

Alan smiles. "Yeah, Gords. We saved them."

Gordon's eyes drift shut. "Good," he sighs. And, within seconds, he's asleep again.

Jeff boots the rest of the family out of the room then, settling into the chair with a long, weary sigh. John feels for him – their father has sat by far too many injured sons in his lifetime. But he also knows that there's no place Jeff would rather be, so he feels no guilt at leaving him there.

The expression on Scott's face says that he'll be back to take a turn at Gordon's bedside before too long, but he'll probably get at least a few hours of sleep first.

The brothers part ways in the hallway, Virgil heading to the kitchen to get some food, while the other three disperse to their bedrooms with soft calls of "Good night!"

And peace settles over the Tracy villa.


End file.
